


Kingsman Prime

by Marqania



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Kingsman: The Secret Service RPF
Genre: Gen, Historical Fantasy, Post-World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4063702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marqania/pseuds/Marqania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those who forget their history are doomed to repeat it.   (Or,  the story in which the author pokes around the web for research on one fic and ends up with an RPF.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kingsman Prime

A figure stood at a darkened window, his head bent and his shoulders shaking, his one visible hand a trembling fist. A second figure joined him a moment later, and wrapped a gloved hand around the fist. The woman’s quiet gesture of comfort caused the man to exhale a sharp, pained gust of fragrant cigarette smoke.

A match burst into life at the hands of another man in an armchair. “Come on, you two. Away from that window.”

“David, _do be quiet_ and let him grieve,” said the woman. The man at the window relaxed and gave the woman’s hand a reassuring squeeze, tugging her away alongside him. Armistice or not, snipers were still a possibility. 

“At least one of you has some sense.” David pulled the flame into the tip of his own cigarette. “Besides, Mary, you know what Father says. Stiff upper lip.”

The man nodded once to the other occupants, taking a deep breath before straightening and making for the door. “Bertie.” The man paused, turning a now-calm mask to David, who tapped his cigarette into a nearby ashtray.

Bertie blinked slowly, in a moment where another may have used an eye roll, and picked up a similar little crystal dish from the mantelpiece. “M-mother hen.” Before he could leave the room, however, the door opened to admit a group of gentlemen, led by a rigid, bearded barrel of a man. Everyone in the room stood to attention.

The bearded man turned to the woman. “Go to your mother, Mary.” The woman curtsied and left the room as the man claimed an armchair next to David.

The bearded man waved a dismissive hand at the other men still standing. “Let’s dispense with the formalities for tonight, gentlemen.”

The men replied ‘certainly, sir’ in several different forms. Drinks were distributed as they settled in chairs around the room, muttering platitudes as they went, like chickens clucking as they prepared to roost for the night.

“That damned Foch,” one gentleman snapped. “Why did he not call for a ceasefire during armistice negotiations?”

“Some nonsense about making the Germans bleed to the last minute,” replied a man in khaki. “Well worth losing a few of our own, I’m sure.”

A second gentleman asked, “Would any of us feel differently upon losing our own sons? His own daughter’s suffered as well, widowed by this war.”

A third put in, “For so many families, sir, the appropriate word isn’t _would_ \- it’s _do._ Lupton, for instance, lost all three of his boys.” 

“Not quite our sort,” said a fourth into his scotch.

The third gentleman’s face hardened. “Despite that, they’ve given _everything._ Comparing the caliber of such men to _our sort_ that remained behind rather puts _our sort_ in the shade.”

The glass of scotch lowered slowly. “If you hadn’t a reputation for propriety, sir, one might suspect such a statement as casting aspersions.”

“Per-perhaps aspersions are ap-propriate in these c-circumstances.”

The room fell silent, shocked by the stammerer’s audacity. The bearded man spoke. “Bertie?”

“Father, everyone in this bl- room is," he nearly spat the word, " _safe._ Even out there, David and I were reasonably _safe._ ” The young man’s voice rose along with his temper. “Those men es-eschewed _safety_ so men like _our sort_ could c-continue to claim that superiority. _Our sort_ of disdain is - ”

“Control yourself, boy.”

 _“Bloody well wrong!”_ Bertie snatched the doorknob and flung it open before him, not caring if it shut as he strode out of the room.

The gentlemen shared glances in the silence that followed. 

David blinked. “He forgot his ashtray.”

 

On the second of February, 1919, as nations gathered to discuss post-war matters in France, twelve letters were quietly delivered to the homes of prominent men across England, Scotland, and Wales. Only one example survives today: a draft preserved by the daughter of its author and donated to the archives upon her accession.

 

_From:_

_Howard Johnson_

_Lieutenant, HMS Collingwood_

_HMNB Devonport, Plymouth_

_To:_

_Sir Charles Lupton_

_Lord Mayor_

_Leeds Town Hall, The Headrow, Leeds_

 

_12 December 1918_

 

_Sir Charles,_

_There is nothing I can offer besides my deepest condolences for the loss of your sons. It is through their heroism that so many of their fellows, myself included, survived to return to their own families. There is, however, a course of action I would like to propose, in the hope that men of all sorts may contribute to the peace your sons gave everything to preserve._

_I have made an appointment at Kingsman Tailors, 11 Savile Row, on Thursday, the 13th of February, at three in the afternoon. I respectfully request the honor of your presence._

_I ask that you not respond to this letter, and that you dispose of this communication in the most discreet manner possible. Should you choose to attend, please request an appointment with the tailor for the same date and time._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Howard Johnson_

**Author's Note:**

> I have officially lost sleep over Colin Firth.
> 
> Not an RPF in the sense I've seen so far, where the actors from the movie are placed into fictional situations. But the characters are real people, and the story is a work of fiction, so methinks the category fits.
> 
> Researched something for another story I'm playing around with. Bumped into one thing, which led to another, and I'll never see Britain quite the same way again. 
> 
> Don't actually know if the codename included a first name at all, so I chose Howard. Brit-picks on this point are appreciated, as are any other corrections and thoughts.


End file.
